


kiss me harder in the bar downstairs at 2am

by biremuslupin



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blue works at a record store bc that's a very Blue thing to do, Dick joke haha, F/M, Gansey dyes Blue's hair, Post-Canon, Sitting on countertops, Threw the Murder Squash Song in there for lols, blue looks good in orange, gansey is still a horndog, still very into the idea of gansey and blue moving to ny for school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22933627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biremuslupin/pseuds/biremuslupin
Summary: “You want to dye your hair?”“I want you to dye my hair.”“Me? I don’t feel as though I’m qualified to do that.”“And I am?” Blue replies, brows raised in question.Gansey raises his in response. Blue raises hers higher. Gansey cannot keep up. This is a losing battle. He gives in.
Relationships: Richard Gansey III/Blue Sargent
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	kiss me harder in the bar downstairs at 2am

**Author's Note:**

> blue can have a little dyed hair. as a treat. also, for vani and theo because we do b nyc bluesey stans.

It’s half past two when the door to the apartment swings open. Gansey is sat on the floor, surrounded by a mess of papers that look like notes, if you squint. He’s bent over a textbook, taking a purple highlighter shaped like a cowboy hat (Blue’s) to the pages, highlighting dates that may or may not be important. He’ll figure out what is and isn’t significant later, when his brain is working a bit better. 

He looks up at the sound of the door, smiling at the sight of his girlfriend. She returns his smile with one of her own, and holds up a reusable tote bag (Gansey’s, reads “Caesar the day!” with a picture of a badly drawn Caesar salad under it). 

“What’s in the bag?” he asks, because she wants him to. 

“I’m glad you asked,” she says, because she is. She dumps the contents onto the counter, and two notebooks and a pencil case that has eyes on it and might resemble an elephant, if you squint, spill out. Also, a tube of hair dye and a box of bleach. 

“Electric lizard!” she proclaims proudly. She tosses the tube toward Gansey, who drops the highlighter so he can catch it. 

“What are you doing with this?” He asks her, turning the tube so he can read the description. 

“Normally, when one buys hair dye, it is for the intent of dyeing one’s hair,” Blue says, hopping onto the counter. 

“You want to dye your hair?”

“I want  _ you _ to dye my hair.”   
  
“Me? I don’t feel as though I’m qualified to do that.”

“And I am?” Blue replies, brows raised in question. 

Gansey raises his in response. Blue raises hers higher. Gansey cannot keep up. This is a losing battle. He gives in.

Gansey stands from his seat on the floor, admitting defeat. He has been seated for quite some time, and his bones remind him of this, making noises he does not feel he is old enough for them to be making. The papers that had been surrounding him shift at the movement, and he almost slips as he steps on one, but he saves himself. Blue laughs.

He sets the box down on the countertop next to Blue’s thigh. His empty hand comes to rest next to her other thigh, and he takes a moment to appreciate the skin neither covered by her shorts nor covered by her thigh-highs. He looks up after a moment, just in time to catch her rolling her eyes at his getting distracted so easily.

She pulls him closer so he’s standing between her legs, tilts his head up. It is not so often that Blue is the one who needs to lean down to kiss him, given the fact that she is quite short and not fond of heels. She is sitting on a counter, though, and Gansey is not very tall, either. She closes the distance between them, brings her lips to his, and while kissing was once a very tricky event for the two of them, one that may cause the death of one of the two parties involved, they are in their apartment in New York, and it feels as though they left the possibility of death back in Henrietta.

Gansey’s hand moves the few inches to the right that is required for him to be gripping her thigh, and Blue smiles against his lips, then pulls back. She pats his cheek, face still inches from his, and whispers, “Let’s get lizarded.” 

“Right!” Gansey replies. He does not move his hand from her thigh. It is probably not possible for him to dye her hair with one of his hands busy rubbing her thigh. She informs him of this, and he nods, although he does not move. Instead, he leans up to kiss her once more. She allows it.

“Right,” Gansey says again. He takes a step back and picks up the box. 

“Right,” Blue repeats. She has no less than five clips and two hair ties in her hair, and she goes about pulling them out while Gansey opens the box.

“Is there any point in me asking if you’re sure you want to bleach your hair?” Gansey asks her, carefully lining up the box’s contents on the counter next to Blue.

“You can ask, but we both know the answer,” she replies. She’s pulled out the last clip, an orange one with a yellow flower at the end, and she leans forward to clip back the hair falling into Gansey’s eyes. “Maybe we’ll do your hair next. It’s getting long. I like it long, though.”

Gansey raises his eyebrows at that. 

“Ha,” Blue says, deadpan. “Yeah, that, too.”

Gansey nods, satisfied by her acknowledgment. He struggles with pulling one of the single-use gloves onto his hand for a few seconds, before pausing to blow into it and then try again. Once both gloves have been pulled on, he claps once. “Ready?”

“Oh, hold on!” Blue says, and Gansey’s brows knit together as she jumps down from the counter and disappears into their bedroom. He frowns, but goes about mixing the bleach powder with the developer as per the instructions while he waits for her.

She returns a moment later, sans boots and cut-up crop top. She’s switched out the shirt she’d been wearing for one of Gansey’s polos, a traffic-cone orange shirt that she’d hidden several weeks ago.

“I’ve been looking for that!” He exclaims. He looks her over. The shirt clashes terribly with her socks, but she’s taken her shorts off and left more of her thighs exposed, and Gansey can’t help but stare. She notices, of course she notices, but she doesn’t comment on his staring, instead returning to her spot on the counter.

“It was under the mattress. It might be improved with a few bleach stains,” she says with a grin. 

Gansey can’t help but laugh at that. He points at Blue, as if to say  _ fair point _ . 

“Is that ready?” Blue asks, with a nod to the mixture still in Gansey’s hand. 

He hums noncommittally. This is not his thing, and they both know it. It was not Blue’s thing either, really, until she stopped at the Walgreens at the end of their block on her way back from work. It fits her, though. And she works at a  _ record store _ , so she’ll fit right in with green hair. 

“You have to do a strand test,” he informs her. He leans forward to untuck a piece of hair from behind her ear, getting a bit closer than necessary. She presses a kiss to his wrist, where the glove ends, as he pulls back, which is also not exactly necessary. He smiles. 

“Alright! Test that strand, guy,” she says, shooting a finger gun at him. 

Gansey does just that. He applies it, and Blue watches him, and he wants to kiss her again, but he doesn’t think that would be too smart, considering the bleach on his hand. 

“We have to wait now,” he states, with a glance at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Look at you! Hair dye aficionado already!” Blue declares. She jumps down, although there isn’t really enough room for her to do so, with Gansey so close. She crashes into him, and he catches her with a startled laugh. 

“Careful,” Gansey tells her, and she rolls her eyes. He’s always careful. She’s trying to make him less careful, and it’s working. But he’s still Gansey, and he still cares too much for his own good, always will. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

At some point during the fifteen minutes in which they wait to see if the bleaching causes all of Blue’s hair to fall out, Blue picks Gansey’s laptop up off of the floor where he’d been sat. She hits shuffle on some band, and Gansey listens to the music, trying hard to place them. It takes a bit, and he’s halfway through applying bleach to Blue’s hair —the strand test did not result in hair loss—when he realizes. The band was familiar because it was the very same one who’d wrote the fucking Murder Squash song.

“This is treason, of the highest form,” Gansey says, as Blue begins to hum along softly. 

“It’s catchy! And their other stuff is, like, super good.”

“Uh huh,” Gansey replies, unable to keep the smile off his face. He could  _ hear _ Ronan’s approval of Blue’s tricking him, a  _ nice, Sargent _ , and a smirk. He decides he’ll tell Ronan about this, the next time they talk, because he thinks he’ll appreciate it. He’ll also probably appreciate Blue’s decision to dye her hair, but that’s just because dyed hair compliments Ronan’s whole rebellious hooligan schtick.

Gansey steps back, gesturing vaguely at Blue’s hair to signify that he’s finished. Now, it’s just a bit of a waiting game, he says. Checking in every few minutes until enough color is lifted, or something. Blue says he sounds professional, and he holds up his phone, open to a page with instructions on how to use the Manic Panic bleaching kit. 

When they’re ready to take the bleach out, Blue lies across the counter, head over the sink, and makes faces at Gansey as he leans over her and uses the detachable faucet head to make sure he gets all the bleach out.

She sits up when he’s done, water dripping onto the shoulders of Gansey’s traffic-cone shirt, leaving darker patches. What seems like ages ago now, Blue had known Gansey was going to die because of an Aglionby sweater with its darker patches. Now, Gansey knows he’s going to live because of an admittedly ugly shirt with darker patches, because he can’t imagine leaving this plane of existence any time soon when he has a girlfriend who looks so good in an ugly, wet shirt. 

Blue claps once, loud, decisive. “Dye me, baby,” she says, using her socked foot to point vaguely in the direction of the hair dye.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gansey replies, and Blue grins. 

He takes the gloves off and tosses them before realizing that they’d only had one pair. It’s just hair dye, though. He doesn’t mind. He starts applying it, and his hands are entirely green before even a third of her hair is done, but it’s fine. Blue’s forehead is green, and her right ear is green, and one of her cheeks is green, because Gansey had cupped her cheek without thinking when she’d kissed him at the halfway point. 

She returns to her spot over the sink when he finishes, and he rinses it out, and her eyes fall closed, and she smiles and looks more at peace than he’s ever seen her, and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her. 

“Why are you staring? Is it done? Is it cool as shit?” She asks, when he’s stopped rinsing her hair and she’s opened her eyes.

“I just love you,” he responds, and she sits up, hands reaching up to touch her hair. “Also, it looks really, really cool as shit. Are you Green now?”

“That was dumb. I love you, too,” she says, because she knows he likes the reassurance, even now, even after they’ve moved miles away from everyone they love together, even after they’ve defied death, even after it’s become so clear that she loves him more than anything in the world. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, because he knows all of this, because he feels the same. 


End file.
